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Lean In

Linger in the light. Press your face against the window and watch leaf blowers send piles of fallen leaves soaring. Drive to the store to buy your favorite lollipops, dance in an empty house, fill your lungs with the earthy autumn air, hug the people you knew when you were young, and pull your car over to make long exposures of the moon with your camera. Race outside to watch the fiery sun slip down the horizon, let the sobs gently shake you, hold on tight to your Dad, laugh recklessly, lay down on the damp grass, and run through the path carved in the woods until your breathing is ragged. Tell someone on the street that they are lovely, get carried away in Sunday morning hymns, share stories about the way your Nana loved to sing, giggle at the fat baby in the pew next to you, and buy cheap ceramic plates just to shatter them and remind yourself what the word fragile means. Sit next to your grandparents’ grave and whisper prayers into the ground, caress those rosary beads until the wood wears down, and let your empty stomach lead you downstairs at 2 a.m. for a bowl of cereal. Jump in the water even when it's cold, dog-ear every page that makes you gasp, pluck those guitar strings until your fingertips go numb, let the fierce wind lull you to sleep, and rest your head on the cool metal tabernacle. Lean in. Our God is a God of abundance. He didn't just give us bread. He gave us wine, too. Sweet, sweet red wine. Drink it deeply.

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